


The Trick Is To Keep Breathing

by stars_over_sky



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-07 01:38:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5438714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stars_over_sky/pseuds/stars_over_sky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wasn't dead yet and this was only pain. She could live through this, she told herself. (post 4-11)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to my writing buddy unfertig and to my wife, for putting up with me spamming them with bits of story at odd hours. ;)

“If this is the afterlife, it sucks.”

She didn't know how long she had been there, how long it had taken her to recover enough that they stopped sedating her. Everything was somewhere in between numb and aching, although she expected that to change for the worse soon enough, and her throat was dry. 

Greer’s smile was enough to make her want to rip his face off. “I sincerely hope you managed to get some rest, my dear Sameen. You're going to need it.” 

“Don't call me that,” she said, feeling a dull throbbing sensation spreading through her body, her wounds becoming more painful as the medication wore off and everything started to ache in time to her heartbeat. 

“Now is that any way to treat your new friends? Especially new friends who have the power to dispense or withhold medications that can make your stay with us a lot more pleasant.” Greer held up a bottle, giving it a little shake. 

“Drink it yourself if it's that good,” she said, looking away as if she'd already dismissed him but keeping him in her peripheral vision. “I recommend taking it all at once.” 

“Well, we can see that you're in a bit of a mood,” Greer said, patting her shoulder in a manner that couldn't have infuriated her more if he'd tried. She tried to shrug his hand off, stopped short by the restraints. “We'll be back in a few hours to see if you've changed your mind.” 

Greer and his little shadow Martine left, the door clicking shut behind them and leaving her alone with her pain. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply as she worked through her injuries, acknowledging each one and then doing her best to ignore that particular pain. Nothing had the hot burn of infection, just the itch that meant it was healing. She wasn't dead yet and this was only pain. She could live through this, she told herself. However many days or weeks it took, she would find a way out. 

* * *

“Hey Lionel,” she fell into step with him as he left the precinct that afternoon, her hands in her pockets and hood pulled up to hide her hair, slouching a little and taking shorter strides than usual to look less like herself in case Samaritan had any people reviewing security footage as a backup. 

“Root,” he said, for once not giving her a nickname. “How you holding up?” 

“Not very well,” she admitted, knowing that she had to look pretty bad for Fusco to be serious. “We haven't found her yet. I was hoping I could ask a favour--it isn't likely to result in anyone being shot, but I probably shouldn't drive right now,” she added, hoping it would sway him. 

“Yeah, okay,” he said, unlocking his car and waiting until she'd hopped in and closed the door before putting the radio on. “Any particular reason you're asking me instead of Captain America or Glasses?” 

“It's… complicated,” she said, leaning back into the seat, raising one hand to rub her eyes. She had been sleeping even worse than usual, and was really starting to feel it. “There's something I need to do but I don't want to go alone, and I don't want a lecture from Harry either.” 

“Fair enough,” Fusco said, putting on his seatbelt and nodding for her to do the same, reversing out of the parking space. “So where are we going?” 

It hadn’t taken long for them to reach Shaw's, stopping the car almost two blocks away, and she led him the roundabout path the Machine had shown her just before Samaritan’s rise, before she'd had to treat surveillance cameras as a threat instead of the benevolent eye of her saviour. “No cameras this way,” she explained as they reached the door without any signs of human surveillance and Fusco just nodded, his expression almost as grim as hers. 

She unhooked the chain around her neck, pulling the key free and unlocking the door, giving it a bump with her hip as she twisted the key and pushed it open. “Deadbolt’s a bit stiff,” she said absently, “you wouldn't believe how long it took me to break in the night I kidnapped her.” 

“Honestly? I suspended my disbelief a long time ago where you were concerned,” he said, taking the stairs a little slower than her. “Even you being able to sweet-talk a key out of Shaw doesn't sound that strange.” 

“I annoyed it out of her, actually,” she unlocked the door at the top of the stairs, holding her breath as she pushed open the door. 

The room was deserted, and she tried not to feel like an idiot for wishing and hoping, just for a moment, that nothing had gone wrong. That the past could be undone and Shaw would still be there waiting for her--usually with a sarcastic quip and a first aid kit, the amount of times she'd arrived a little worse for wear and in need of medical attention. Shaw had snapped one day and tossed her a key, telling her she was sick of hearing her pick the lock at 3am and risking bleeding out before she made it inside. 

“That sounds more like Shaw,” Fusco said, jarring her from her memories. 

“When I'm involved, yeah,” she said, looking around and wondering where to start. What would Shaw want to keep, she thought, and then shook her head. Sameen would have wanted to keep her weapons because replacing them was ‘a pain in the ass’, and there probably wasn't much else she cared about one way or the other. 

She crossed to the bed and knelt, pulling out a few of the bags Shaw kept under there out of the way. “Would you empty the fridge?” she asked, holding one out to him and smiling at his expression. “I’m not being weird, it's where Shaw keeps her guns.” 

“Oh, yeah, I can do that,” he took the bag from her and headed to the fridge. 

She drew in a ragged breath and sat down on the edge of the bed, picking up the pillow from Shaw's side. It wasn't fair that Shaw was gone, that she could close her eyes and breathe in the smell of Shaw's hair, that she could feel her heart breaking. 

“Come on, Root, get your shit together,” she muttered to herself, rubbing her eyes with one sleeve and getting up decisively, unzipping a bag and chucking in the leather jacket that had been thrown over the bedside table. Most of Shaw's clothes were neatly folded away, which made them easier to jam into the bag and she was even able to shut it again after digging a knee in to hold it all down. 

“Your girlfriend has enough firepower here to start World War Three,” Fusco said, zipping up the bag now full of weapons. He was able to lift it, but only with both hands. “How much C4 does one woman need?” 

“When that woman is Sameen, I don't think there's an upper limit,” she smiled, turning away to wipe her eyes again. He hadn't used the past tense in referring to Shaw even once, which was exactly what she needed to hear. Right now she couldn't consider the possibility that Harold was right, that she should give up. 

“We won't be much longer,” she said, taking the last bag and beginning to fill it with what few personal items Shaw had, a handful of books, another jacket and the world's smallest make-up bag, an old medal from Russia and a half-dozen letters in a child's writing from the drawer of the bedside table, and a couple of blank postcards stuck to the wall, all of which she had sent to Shaw while on solo missions for the Machine. 

It seemed like so little to leave behind, so inadequate when all she wanted was Shaw safely with her again, to spend another night with her under whatever spurious pretext she’d made up to give the impression that they weren't… whatever they were, that each night was an isolated incident instead of a habit. 

She hadn't argued the point when it became obvious they were going to keep meeting, knowing that Shaw had certain boundaries and having work of her own that kept her flitting from city to city and country to country. The words they used meant less than what passed between them with just a glance or a smile, and for a while that had been enough. 

When the Machine stopped talking to her after Samaritan came online - when she caught the occasional whisper instead of the constant flow of data - she’d started to feel lost. 

Sameen had borne the brunt of her emotional weakness then, her need to talk to drown out the silence in her head, her more aggressive flirting as she tried to hold on to what she had left. Sometimes it was with good grace if she caught Shaw alone, sometimes with an edge of exasperation depending on if she'd just finished a shift at her day job or if they had company, but she'd never told Root to leave, no matter how annoying she found herself being. 

“Hey, Root?” Fusco called, raising a glass bottle half-full with an amber-coloured liquid, the label peeled off after being left under a running tap--to remove bloodstains, she remembered. Shaw had pulled the bottle out one night when they got back both a little worse for wear, claiming it was medicinal but getting blood all over it. “Do you wanna take this? I poured the milk out because it won't keep, but she'd stashed this behind a box of grenades.” 

She bit her lip, deliberating for all of two seconds before nodding and taking the bottle from him, wrapping Shaw's pillow around it and stowing the bundle in the last bag. 

She took one last look around, blinking rapidly to prevent another embarrassing outburst of tears. She had been happy here while it had lasted. 

“Let's go,” she said, hoisting one bag onto her back, adjusting her hood and slinging the strap of the second bag over her shoulder. 

“Where you headed after this?” he asked as she made sure the door was locked behind them. 

“I'll get a hotel room--I'm avoiding the concern police back at our subterranean hideout.” 

“My place is half an hour away, I have a perfectly good couch if you don't wanna be alone right now. Or I can drop you off anywhere, your choice.” 

“That… sounds pretty good, actually,” she accepted his offer with a smile, dropping the heavier bag into the trunk of his car. “Thanks, Lionel.” 

* * *

“Your friends won't be coming to find you,” Martine’s voice taunted her. “They left you to die at my hands, as far as they know you're dead and probably in an unmarked grave.” 

She didn't respond, focusing on keeping her breathing even and maintaining the illusion that she was asleep. She was too tired for these games and she had learned that nothing annoyed Martine more than her indifference. If Martine was making a special visit to tell her how alone she was, there had to be more to it. Something must have happened outside the hospital to prompt Martine’s visit, and she chose to take it as an indication that Samaritan wasn't entirely getting its own way in the fight with their Machine. 

Martine’s phone buzzed, and the Samaritan agent left without another word. She must have slept then, because the next thing she knew Greer was back to bother her. 

“Your loyalty to your team is admirable but completely pointless,” he said, attempting a friendly tone. “We could take them in gently with your help, or a lot harder without it. There’s nothing you can gain by holding out.” 

“If you're trying to bore me to death, you've made a good start.” 

“I thought it would be sporting to let you know that your time is running out. Your doctor says that we can start using sodium pentothal and other fun concoctions on you soon.” 

“Ready when you are,” she shot back, digging her nails into her palms without Greer noticing, using the discomfort to wake herself up a little more. He flashed her a smile as he left the room, switching the light off on his way so that the only illumination in the room was Samaritan's white computer screen and the tiny green LED to show that cameras were watching her. 

She could do this; she had lied before under the influence and been difficult to steer towards the topics her interrogators wanted, she could do it again. 

All she had to do was come up with a better story than the truth, and believe in it so hard that they fell for it. 

_The easiest lie was closest to the truth._

She had to have something that they could believe, information that they would want. She needed to choose where to hold the line if it came to the worst. 

Reese might not have survived, he had been pretty bad when she'd sent them on their way. If he had died then talking about him wouldn’t have as much impact, but if he was alive it would take them seconds to find him once she shared his new identity, and that might take Fusco down with him. She had to assume he was still alive, if she could survive, he could have made it too. 

She couldn't give up Finch, if Samaritan went after him it would be over and he had no chance of being able to evade them. 

Which only left Root. 

Root was the logical choice; least vulnerable overall, most able to hide from Samaritan’s prying eyes with the help of the Machine in her ear even if they weren't talking as much as they used to, and much better at hand to hand combat than she had been before Shaw had stepped in. 

It still felt like betrayal.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw finds Samaritan's hospitality lacking, Root inherits obligations in her absence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took longer than planned (Christmas was murder) - fingers crossed the next two won't take so long!

“Most of our prisoners have been much more forthcoming,” Greer appeared beside her as she was being escorted back from the bathroom, her hands cuffed in front of her and one Samaritan lackey dragging her by the arm while the other swung his stun baton in a meaningful fashion. “You've been very unhelpful, on the other hand, even when drugged to the gills. We ask you to share information, you reply with anatomically improbable suggestions. We try reasoning with you, you fall asleep. Even Martine hasn't made much impact on you, which was very disappointing. Samaritan has decided to try something a little more extreme.”

Their attempts to interrogate her hadn’t been anything to write home about, Hersh had put her through worse during training when she'd stayed awake for four days in a row while hiding a fractured ulna and fed her interrogators a profanity-laced load of utter bullshit by the end of it. Maybe Samaritan's people had been easy on her due to her injuries, maybe for reasons of their own they'd mostly stuck to drugs and trying to talk her to death--Martine’s visit with needles and electrodes had hurt like hell but she hadn’t done any permanent damage. 

All the evidence she had to date and her instinctive reading of every interaction she had with them told her that something was holding them back. Whether it was Greer or Samaritan, if they were keeping her as a bargaining chip or if they had another purpose in mind, she refused to cooperate. “I can take anything you throw at me,” she sneered, but he only smiled at her bravado. 

“I very much doubt that,” he said, gesturing to the men in lab coats that flanked him. “Prepare her for surgery.” 

She fought instinctively without a real escape plan, breaking one man's wrist and incapacitating another with a barefoot kick to the throat, but before she could run she heard a taser firing, felt the bite of the prongs in her shoulder, and hit the ground hard. The moment the taser stopped one of the white coats was on her, digging his knee into her back and jabbing her in the neck with a syringe. She was really starting to get sick of their idea of hospitality, she decided, just as everything went dark. 

* * *

_Begin recording. Root, if you're hearing this, something’s happened. Maybe Samaritan got me, maybe I snapped and couldn't take the makeup counter any more. In case I didn't have a chance to tell you before...whatever, I wanted to say thanks for--you made a difference. To me._

_If you can, I was--there's a kid I--she was a number the week you kidnapped me. Her name's Gen. If you two can keep an eye on her I'd really appreciate it. End recording._

* * *

“Augusta?” she heard the school’s admin assistant calling out to her and looked up, her reaction slightly delayed. For the first time in months the Machine was back with her properly--dropping out every few minutes before reconnecting, but still really there. 

She had hacked into the school’s systems two days earlier to put herself on the accepted visitor list, only to discover that the Machine had beaten her to it by several months. She had been added as a secondary contact just after Samaritan had gone live, as had ‘John Riley’ just in case. “Genrika won't be long, and we'll just get you to sign her out in this book.” 

She signed where the redhead indicated, showing her FBI badge as proof of identity and scratching Bear behind the ears when he headbutted her in the leg. Out of the corner of her eye she could see a girl with curly blonde hair approaching--definitely a match for the photograph on file and the Machine confirmed it--but stopping short before the glass doors that led into the office, the grin on her face fading rapidly when she saw only Root. 

The school hadn't told her who her visitor was, she realised instantly, waving at the girl. She would have expected Shaw, and anyone else had to be a disappointment. She saw Gen take a deep breath before pushing the door open and walking through, her face schooled into a pleasantly neutral expression. 

“Hi Gen,” she said, leading an eager Bear forward. She had dressed him in his bulletproof vest even though Harold had suggested it might be overkill--the chances of Samaritan staking out the school were low to nonexistent, she had been told, but she still had to get him home again afterwards, and there was always a chance she'd be retasked before she got him back to the subway. “Ready for an afternoon out with me and Bear here?” 

Bear at least had brought a tiny smile back to Gen’s face as he licked her hands and wagged his tail, and Gen nodded her agreement. 

“I'll have her back by curfew,” she said, taking the hand Gen offered and letting Bear lead them outside through the automatic doors. 

As soon as they were outside, Gen raised her free hand to shield her eyes, looking around the parking lot. “Which one's yours?” she asked, squeezing Root’s hand. _Three short, four short, short long--_

Root froze, pulling Bear to a halt and squeezing Gen’s hand back a little too tightly. The kid was pretty good for eleven going on twelve, her expression still deliberately neutral although Root could feel the tension in her fingers. 

She nodded towards the black SUV that the Machine had legitimately rented for the day. “That one,” she said, slipping Bear's leash around her wrist and fumbling in her pocket for the keys, finding the fob and pushing the button to unlock the car. She squeezed Gen’s hand in reply, _two long, two short, short long._

Gen nodded in response, releasing her hand and moving towards the car. By the time Root had Bear settled in the back seat Gen was in the front, curled up in the seat with her arms around her knees. 

“I'm so sorry,” she said as she took her seat, the words feeling hopelessly inadequate. Her earlier foray into the school's computers had told her Shaw was the only regular visitor Gen had at the school, and the Machine had told her that although Harold was the one paying the bills and making most of the decisions, it was Sameen who picked her up in the summer and dropped her off at first of the programs and camps that she was signed up for, and it was mostly Sameen who spent the odd day or two looking after her when there was too much of a gap in Gen’s schedule. 

When she had told Harold she would be the bearer of bad news he had put up a token resistance but she had read the relief in his shoulders when she insisted. Now she wasn't so sure she'd done the right thing, and only the constant stream of data from the Machine--useful or just background noise that would become relevant later--was enough to keep her grounded. 

She didn't know how to help a grieving, guarded and shut-off girl, even if she'd been in those shoes so many years ago. She'd been consumed by the need to end Hanna’s killer when it was obvious that no one would believe her, when he got to keep living his life as if nothing had happened. That need for revenge had only been the start of a pretty bad life, no matter how much she tried to redeem herself now. 

_You are the best choice to tell her that Sameen is missing,_ the Machine’s message pulsed through her implant and into her brain at lightning speed, the code translated without having to stop and think about it. _Trust yourself and trust me._

Missing. Her word choice was deliberate, Root knew from their time together. She didn't lie to Root, ever, although there were times - all too many times lately - when no answer was forthcoming. 

Missing meant cruel hope, sleepless nights playing scenarios over and over in her head. 

Missing meant not dead. 

“I've lost her trail for now, but I haven't given up,” she said softly, trying to walk the line between comforting Gen and making promises she wasn't sure she could keep. “I won't give up.” 

“You swear you'll try to find her?” Hope and fear warred in Gen’s eyes as she studied Root’s face. 

“I swear,” she said. Gen hadn't made her promise that she would succeed, and she didn’t think it was from lack of thought on the kid’s part. 

“We should go somewhere, staying here for too long is a bit suspicious,” Gen unfolded from the sad little ball she'd made, glancing back towards the school. “Some of the staff are really nosy about… whenever I have a visitor.” 

“Is there anywhere you can suggest?” 

“There's a park not far away, we’d stop there to let Bear run around. No surveillance in spots--it's where Shaw showed me your photo so I'd recognise you no matter what name you used.” 

The GPS unit crackled to life as soon as she started to drive, telling her to turn left in four hundred yards. She followed the directions given, sneaking a glance at Gen and passing her one of the paper napkins she had pocketed from the bakery when collecting a cake that morning. 

“Thank you,” the girl said automatically, wiping her eyes and tucking the damp tissue into her sleeve. 

“You have arrived at your destination,” the GPS unit said, switching itself off again and leaving them at a park that seemed empty of people. She let Gen take the bag with the cake and soda, taking Bear’s leash and the picnic blanket he had been sitting on. 

“Can you tell me anything?” Gen asked, her voice not quite steady as she sat down on the blanket, putting an arm around Bear. She'd let Gen choose the spot, far enough away from the road that no one could sneak up on them but with a clear line of sight to the car, under the wide branches of an evergreen tree. “I know there's a lot that it's safer not to tell me, but if you can… if it's not too hard. I know you and Shaw are--she mentioned you. You made her smile. I worked it out.” 

Sameen had told Gen about her. “I'll tell you what I can,” she said, the start of a half-dozen sentences flashing through her head before being discarded. How much did Gen know, and how much could she reveal without putting the kid in danger? 

_Disclose AI existence,_ the Machine told her, the connection dropping before she could ask how much she was okay to tell. 

“We were trying to prevent--there's an artificial intelligence that's taking over the world. It's got so many people, thousands of them, and although we have an AI of our own there's only five of us. We've been sort of hiding for months since the other one rose, but there was a mission that went wrong,” she took a deep breath, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. Gen's gaze hadn't wavered, compelling in its intensity. 

“Sameen wasn't meant to be there. She saved us all but she was shot holding off enemy agents after she got us into the elevator. I couldn't stop it. I know they took her, and Harold says that her chances of surviving are--were--almost impossible but she was so brave and strong and stupid that day--” 

To her surprise Gen edged closer, hugging her before she had time to react. “She's really good at saving people,” Gen said quietly, “And she's been shot a lot, I saw some of her scars after she saved me. If anyone can survive she can.” 

“Yes,” she agreed, returning the hug gently. “She can.” 

* * *

Waking up was hard--harder than it had been for weeks. Her eyes were bandaged, her right eye ached, and the sharp scent of iodine lingered. She could tell from feel and smell that she was back in her bed, handcuffed on her side with restraints that were uncomfortably tight. She could feel the bruises in her hip and shoulder pulsing and her neck burned, stabbing pains that shot up her spine into the base of her skull. Nausea won over hunger, and she swallowed rapidly, fighting back the need to be sick with an already-empty stomach. 

“This is what happens to uncooperative people,” Martine’s voice made her freeze, her every instinct telling her she was too vulnerable. “Before this is over you'll wish I'd killed you. The last two were blind within days, and the one before that begged us to finish him.” Martine was close, too close, and she could feel cold calloused fingertips on her cheek. She tried to pull away, but couldn't get far enough as Martine’s grip tightened. 

“Don't you have small children to torture or puppies to kick?” she asked, feeling her skin crawl where Martine had touched her. “Wouldn't want you to fall behind schedule.” 

“I’ve been assigned other targets,” Martine said, and she could tell from Martine’s voice that the other woman was smiling, gloating at her. “I'm sure you can guess who.” 

She could hear Martine walking away, stopping at the door. “Maybe if you're cooperative and talk now, Samaritan will let me give your friend the quick death you can't have.” 

“Maybe she’ll kill you if I don't get to you first.” 

Martine was laughing as the door closed, sending a chill down her spine. Root would be okay. She had to trust in that. Root had backup from the Machine, she knew that when it came down to the wire their AI would be there for her. Root knew enough quick and dirty moves that she could take down almost anyone, sometimes even her on a good day. There was nothing else she could do to protect her. 

When she got free she was going to kill every last one of Samaritan's people. 

* * *

“Hang on,” Gen said, dropping her shopping bags on the empty bed and hitting the switch on the mp3 player on the desk by the door. Within moments the mournful sound of whales singing spilled out of the attached speakers and filled the room, making Bear groan in despair and hide under Gen’s bed. “It’s a bit safer to talk now.” 

“Why whales?” she asked, putting down the other three bags they'd acquired in an extremely fast and efficient trip to the nearest department store. When Gen had mentioned she needed new clothes but had been waiting for Shaw Root had instantly volunteered to take her, and had been pleasantly surprised by how quickly Gen had finished even with the time taken to try on jeans and sneakers. 

“I didn't want to share a room,” Gen admitted with a shrug, her voice quiet enough that eavesdroppers would have to be pressed up against the door to hear her speak over the whales. “They wanted me to. Shaw suggested I wake up screaming a few nights a week and the school was suddenly a lot more willing to move me to a room by myself. The whale song I added so I can sleep and no one else can.” 

“Clever,” she said, taking the laptop Gen offered her and plugging her phone into it. It took only minutes to significantly beef up the security and set up a program that could punch an encrypted connection through to one of relays that the Machine maintained. “This is a safe way you can communicate with me, text only. If you type cnnd here, it will bring up the window, type ping then a space and… how good are you at remembering number sequences? Good enough?” 

At Gen’s nod she took the girl's hand, pulling out a pen and carefully writing out three IP addresses on the inside of her wrist. “Memorise these, any one of them should get you through--the Machine may answer for me if I'm asleep or unable to reply straight away, but she'll let me know you need me. Phone?” 

Gen handed over her phone, taking back the laptop, and out of the corner of her eye Root could see the girl mouthing the numbers of the IP addresses to herself, fingers flying over the number pad without pushing hard enough to register. 

“I've put myself in as speed dial nine--” she said, passing back the phone. “Unfriendly agents may be able to listen in so no names. I've also added a number that can help if... I'm out of the country or can't get to a phone. Her name is Zoe Morgan, and if anything happens to both me and Harold she'll be in touch within a week.” 

She saw Gen’s frown, saw Gen open her mouth to speak and then stop, the implications of what Root had said fully sinking in. “Right, I understand,” Gen said at last. “I'll memorise these numbers too.”

_Central Park. Summit Rock. Bear. 74 minutes._ The words dropped into her head, giving her just enough to start her next mission. 

“Gen, I’m sorry. I have to run,” she said, reaching back into her bag and pulling out two packages. “This is your decoy present that you can show anyone--if Harold asks this is what I gave you,” she put the giftwrapped 3DS and games down on the bed for Gen to open later. “Don’t tell him that I’m also giving you a stun gun.” 

Harold wouldn’t have approved at all, although she thought Shaw probably would. Almost certainly. 

Gen looked more excited than apprehensive, so she chose her next words carefully. “It’s disguised as a phone and will make calls in an emergency. Read the manual, it’s on your computer. Don’t use it unless you absolutely have to. Keep it charged. Practice stunning your pillow or something else non-conductive until you can do it in your sleep. Aim for nerve clusters in the torso on a person. If you can keep it on someone for five or six seconds you’ll buy yourself enough time to run. Got it?” 

“Got it,” Gen said, taking the unmarked flat box and stowing it under her pillow. “I'll practice, and it's our secret. Thanks, Root.” 

“You're welcome,” she said, accepting one last hug before taking Bear’s leash and coaxing him out from under the bed. “Keep a low profile--no unnecessary risks,” she added, closing the bedroom door behind her. She and Bear would complete her next mission, she'd drop Bear off, and then it would just depend on where she was needed to put out fires. 

“Will she be okay?” she asked as she and Bear crossed the parking lot. Had she said too much, or not enough to prevent Gen from conducting her own investigations? She knew that keeping people in the dark led to more problems than it solved, but no matter how resourceful Gen was she was still three days short of twelve. 

_I will protect Auxiliary Asset,_ the Machine replied. _You have done well._

“It doesn't always feel like it,” she admitted, settling Bear into the back seat. She had been on the move for over two weeks straight, jumping from identity to identity and job to job, running on less information than ever. So far she hadn't been asked to do more than she could manage, but she had the feeling that she was getting dangerously close to her limit. She could only be in one place at a time, and it was starting to take its toll. Today hadn't been especially risky, but if anything happened to her... 

“You need more assets,” she said, closing her eyes for just a few seconds as she leaned back against the car. Bear chose that moment to stick his head out of the window and lick the side of her face. “And you can cut that out. Shaw might not care but dog spit isn't part of my moisturising regime.” 

_Initiating secondary asset recruitment,_ the Machine told her, and with that the connection dropped. 

* * *

A day later they removed the bandages and a blonde woman in a lab coat shone a light in her right eye, making her recoil automatically. “The graft is coming along nicely,” the woman said, tilting her head to one side with an unfocused look that reminded her suddenly of Root, even if Root was much better at multitasking to the point where most people couldn't tell she was listening to two conversations at once. “No, there's no inflammation, I don't think she's at risk of rejection. Experimental features are locked until you're ready, as req--” 

“Hey,” she said, breaking the woman's concentration, throwing caution to the wind. Whatever they had done to her, turning her into a lab rat, it involved far too much time and effort on their part for her to be easily disposable and that gave her something to work with. It still hurt--there were words for how much it hurt, and most of them couldn’t be printed in a newspaper, but pain could be endured. Hunger was another story entirely. “While you've got an open line going, ask Big Brother if they're ever gonna feed me again.” 

“Your breakfast is being arranged now. Please stand by,” the blonde recited, the words clearly someone else's instead of her own. 

They uncuffed one hand so that she could at least sit up to eat, and her eyes narrowed as a young woman with messy brown hair brought in a tray. “I know you,” she said, rubbing her forehead and trying to place where she recognised that face from. “Who the hell are you?” 

“I'm Claire,” the young woman said, putting the tray down carefully on her lap and stepping back out of reach. “I work with Samaritan, and it tells me you’re going to be joining us.” 

She downed the plastic cup of reconstituted orange juice in one go, dropping it back into the tray. “I would rather,” she said emphatically, picking up the stupid plastic fork they were willing to let her have and shoveling down scrambled eggs, “shoot myself in the face than work for Samaritan.” 

Claire looked taken aback at first, but recovered quickly. “Samaritan wants you to know that you won't be dealing with Mr Greer’s team now, it understands that there may be some hostilities there due to past history,” she said. “Samaritan really does want you to join us--it wants to offer amnesty to your, um, friend if you're willing to work with us to bring her in.” 

“No,” she said, shaking her head and regretting it when everything started spinning. She remembered Claire now, remembered Finch saying how smart the girl was was when he'd been trying to keep her away from Samaritan. Not smart enough to steer clear of Samaritan, it seemed, but she had to be better than Martine. She pushed away the empty tray, flimsy plastic fork and all. “I can't help you and I can't join you.” 

“Okay,” Claire said, taking the tray from her. “We'll be back at lunch time and can talk more then.” 

* * *

Their little chats over meals had switched to proper interrogation sessions once it became clear she wasn't going to spill everything just because they had the questions coming from someone she didn't actively want dead. 

Now she was taken down the hall on random days to a white room, injected with something that made everything hazy and left to wait for Claire and her AI ride-along. Sometimes they arrived promptly, sometimes she lost consciousness while waiting and was woken and re-dosed before they arrived. She had difficulty remembering the questioning, but they kept bringing her back so she couldn't have given them anything very useful. 

Lunch had gone off the menu after a few days of being uncooperative, but the drug combination they were using on her made her first nauseous and later unconscious, and she was adjusting to the reduced rations fast enough that it was unpleasant but not intolerable. 

Today was different, she realised as soon as her handlers pushed her down into the seat. The blonde in the lab coat was waiting for her as well as one of the needle-happy idiots who liked to inject the drug of the day into her. 

“Restrain her,” the blonde said, not making eye contact with her and fiddling with something on the tablet she held. 

She resisted automatically, slamming an elbow into the face of one of the handlers. He responded by twisting her arm to the point where she could feel bones grinding, cuffing her to the table before she could free herself. 

“Subject 17, phase two hybrid prototype, coming online on day twelve. Basic monitoring functions enabled--testing.” 

She focused on the blonde woman's words as they cuffed her to the table, storing them for later analysis and trying to ignore the buzzing sensation that had started in her head. What little information she was gleaning wasn’t sounding promising. 

“A/V check, pass, pass--” the woman finally met her eyes, looking a little guilty. “You may wish to brace yourself for this.” 

She didn't waste time asking what the woman meant, locking her muscles a heartbeat before vision-darkening agony radiated through every nerve. She could hear herself hissing from the pain, staring fixedly at her hands, counting the seconds as it pulsed again before fading. 

“Hold function within acceptable parameters. Initial testing complete. Subject will be ready for interrogation shortly.” 

“Keep still,” one of the men said, grabbing her by the hair and pulling her head back hard as the blonde left the room. “They’ve sent through something special for you.” 

In her peripheral vision she could just see that the syringe was filled with a dark red liquid. She felt a sharp stab in the neck, refusing to flinch. “When I get free,” she said to him, forming each word carefully. “I’m going to make certain you’re one of the ones I kill on my way out.” 

“You’ve been here for weeks, the only way you're leaving is in a box,” he said dismissively, pushing her forward in an attempt to make her hit the table, and she bumped him further up her mental list of people who really needed to die. 

“Hi Shaw,” Claire entered the room, dismissing Shaw’s handlers with a wave of her hand. “Samaritan has a few more questions for you today.” 

“I can't wait,” she said sarcastically, the words coming out before she could stop herself. Claire looked pleased, and she could tell that Samaritan was saying something. 

She bit the inside of her lip, hard, trying to regain some control. Whatever they had given her was making the edges of the room blur, and she hadn’t meant to say her words aloud. 

She could feel her heart rate rising, and forced herself to breathe slowly. 

“We need you to tell us how you managed to hide in plain sight,” Claire said, her voice firm. “We'll find out sooner or later.” 

She shook her head, not caring that the room started spinning, and sat back in her chair as much as she could given the restraints. “I can't tell you anything,” she said, keeping her eyes on the handcuffs, focusing on the metal digging into her hands, the lingering ache in the scars she'd acquired from the stock exchange and the shooting nerve pain in her neck, everything that reminded her that she was being held against her will and that she owed them nothing. 

“Please tell us,” Claire said, her voice hesitant. “If you don't, Samaritan may have to hurt you.” 

“That's Samaritan's choice, not mine,” she shrugged, trying to appear casual, trying to keep from saying more that she intended. “I can't tell you anything because I don't know anything, but I won't take responsibility for what you or it chooses to do here.” 

“Okay,” Claire said, looking slightly off to one side as Samaritan spoke to her. “If you say you don't know anything we'll leave that one for now. Tell us about your AI’s maker. We know his name is Harold Finch, but we were hoping you could tell us where he is.” 

“Hell if I know,” she found herself saying, feeling a tingling sensation start at the base of her skull, leaning forward and bracing herself as much as possible, the edge of the table digging into her ribs when the pain shot through her. One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand, four-- 

“Samaritan says that you need to be more helpful,” Claire was looking a little green around the gills metaphorically, she observed, hoping that this was something she could remember later. Weakness in your interrogators was something that could be exploited, if she could just hold onto this. 

She could feel sweat beading down the sides of her face, awkwardly wiping it away against first one t-shirt sleeve and then the other, the cuffs digging in each time. Wherever they'd given her this time was making her more talkative against her will, and if she didn't choose her words deliberately she risked revealing more than she wanted. It was what she'd been planning for, spending hours going over and over the details that she was willing to let them pry from her, but no matter how prepared she was it was still dangerous. Not for her, but for Root and Finch, for Reese and Fusco and Bear. 

“Claire, please tell Samaritan I can't tell you what I don't know. He worked out of an old library. I went there a bunch of times. After that I just went where I was needed. He could be anywhere now.” 

Enough time had passed that she could genuinely believe what she was saying; her reactions must have passed Samaritan's scrutiny. She was a hard read for humans, but an AI was another story entirely and their Machine had been considerably better at reading her than she'd been comfortable with--she had to assume that Samaritan was at least as good at reading her as the Machine, probably better if it could pull her heart rate and blood pressure from the implant, which gave her a much narrower margin of error than she’d have had with a human interrogator. 

Whatever was in the new drug they had given her, it was starting to have more effect--the pain Samaritan caused had faded, and she was starting to lose feeling in her fingers and toes, a deceptive warmth spreading through her. 

Claire nodded, turning away and mumbling something that Samaritan would be able to hear, even if she couldn't. 

“Tell us about Samantha Groves,” Claire said. “We know you’ve been working with her for some time.” 

“Her name is Root,” she heard herself correcting Claire, the words coming out against her best intentions, and she forced herself to focus through the hazy feeling, working up as much defiance as she could manage. “I won't let you get to her. I'll die before I give her up.” 

“No one has to die,” Claire said, shaking her head. “I know--Samaritan knows that you've had problems with its people who were part of Decima, but it's working on recruiting people who want to make a difference. It’s seen what you can do and wants you to be one of them--and your friend Root as well, you can both join us and this will all be over.” 

Anger gave her a moment of sharp clarity through the haze, enough that she could choose her words to manipulate rather than being led the way they wanted. “Your pitch needs some work, kid. Martine put three bullets in me, one after I was already down and bleeding out. I can't work with her.” 

Her words silenced Claire, at least for a moment, she could see the play of emotions across the young woman's face as Samaritan spoke. “I'm sorry,” she said at last. “That's me talking, not Samaritan. But it says that as long as you keep talking to me, Martine stays away from you. It made Martine pull her third shot at the last minute, because it wanted you alive.” 

It wasn't much of a choice when she put it that way. Her chances of living long enough to escape would go down dramatically if Martine had a free hand in it and even if one part of her brain was telling her she should consider death to prevent being used against her people it was still a very small part. She would still be more useful if she managed to gather information, escape and return to them--and she had never been the sort to give up easily. 

She nodded her agreement to Samaritan's terms, trying to think of questions of her own to push back with. 

“Why does Samaritan want us specifically?” she asked, leaning back in her chair. “It has thousands of people and deep pockets. It can find the best money can buy.” 

“It can't allow another AI to live, but it knows how good you are. How good Root is. How much it could do with both of you, if you would just choose the winning side.” 

While it might be true Samaritan wanted them, she knew with deadly certainty it would go through Root to get to the Machine no matter how much it talked about amnesty and working together. 

“Root won't agree,” she said, fighting against the lethargic feeling taking over and trying to dredge up her anger again. “She loves the Machine, and I won't let you hurt her.” 

“We won't hurt her,” Claire said, voice a little odd, making her wonder if Samaritan had told Claire that they wouldn't hurt Root or just to say that they wouldn't hurt her. She wouldn’t put it past Samaritan to lie if it suited it. 

“No, you won't,” she agreed, fighting back a yawn. “‘cos you won't catch her.” 

“Why not?” Claire prompted, clearly at Samaritan's behest now. 

“She's too good--too smart for you,” the words spilled out, mostly drawn from lines she'd repeated to herself over and over in her head until they became the first thing her mind latched onto when she thought of Root. “She's always two steps ahead, she can think circles around people, she can talk her way out of almost anything--” she said, remembering the way Root would smile at her when trying to smooth-talk her way out of trouble and into bed, “and she's pretty. So pretty.” 

That hadn't been part of her plan. 

* * *

On waking, she realised that the good news was that although the memories were a little hazy she could remember everything and she hadn't disclosed anything that could help them in finding Root. 

The bad news was that she could remember everything, and judging by the time on Claire’s watch she had talked for over fifteen minutes before passing out face-down on the table, going into detail about Root’s smile and her eyes and her legs, about her annoying habit of using all the hot water and her much better habit of appearing exactly when Shaw needed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The morse code used by Gen and Root is, respectively, 'S H A' and 'M I A'


End file.
